


The Last Time

by clawstoagunfight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Army, Barebacking, Established Relationship, Goodbye Sex, Happy Ending, M/M, Sad!Derek, Sad!Sheriff, Sweet Sex, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clawstoagunfight/pseuds/clawstoagunfight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is leaving in the morning and Derek can't find the words to say how he feels. Instead, he shows him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I wanted to write Goodbye Sex. So here you go.

_This is the last time._

Their fingers move together, intertwining, holding tight onto one another, just to feel the heat of the others’ skin. Familiar; like the calluses Stiles has from endless hours of typing on his computer. They ghost over Derek’s knuckles and his body relaxes on a sigh. He looks up from the shallow scratch in the hardwood floor he’s been staring at, to Stiles. Stiles’ eyes are dark, brows slightly furrowed, and he’s looking at Derek like he needs to say something, anything. But he doesn’t. Derek hears Stiles swallow hard, sees the bob of his Adam’s apple, watches as his lips purse, like he’s willing his tongue and teeth and lips to hold on, hold on, don’t ruin this moment with words.

_I’m leaving in the morning._

Derek doesn’t know how much longer he can do this, how much longer he can look at that face, the one that’s captivated and held his attentions for so long. It would be meaningless to say that he doesn’t want Stiles to leave. His body is almost in pain at the impending physical separation, but somewhere in the crevice of his mind, he wants Stiles to go, to do what he feels is right. He doesn’t say the things that Stiles already knows. Words are fallible. They can’t express to Stiles all that Derek is feeling. He gets it—the reason why Stiles is leaving. But it’s hard, so damn hard.

_I have to go. I can’t do the things you can do, but I can do something._

Stiles pulls on their intertwined fingers, bringing Derek closer. He watches him as Stiles brings his free hand to Derek’s shirt, clutching at the collar before his hand snakes to the back of his neck, fingers massaging lightly at the base of his skull. Derek takes the next step, disengaging their fingers so he can run his own up the length of Stiles’ arm, to press his palm against his cheek, to softly run his thumb over the sharp line of Stiles’ jaw. Like this, he can see perfectly into Stiles’ eyes. They are level with his own; like their lips, and their noses. Stiles is watching him, waiting, taking in something unseen to Derek, maybe something that his own face or eyes or lips betrays. His eyelids flutter closed.

He doesn’t want to say how much he cares, how much it scares him that this may be the last time, that this may be the end. That after tomorrow he may never see Stiles’ smile, or his eyes, or hear his heart beat as he lays his ear against the pale skin of Stiles’ chest. He may never get to hold onto that hand, feel those sweetly callused fingertips against his neck, kiss those lips, those ridiculous lips that say his name in that infuriating way he does. He may never hear Stiles laugh again; may never hear him free and happy and honest and relishing in the inexhaustible vitality of life. Derek closes his eyes tighter. He can’t imagine a world without Stiles’ laughter. He can’t go back to silence again. That thought alone is enough to break him.

_If I can help them, Derek, isn’t it worth it?_

_Is helping them worth dying, Stiles?_

Maybe Derek has his eyes clenched shut for too long, or maybe Stiles can see the barely controlled turmoil lurking just beneath the surface, but either way, when Derek feels the soft touch of lips to his forehead, he caves.

He caves like a landslide, pulling Stiles against him in one quick motion, his free hand flush against Stiles’ back. He needs this, just to hold Stiles, to feel that he is real, that he is still alive and warm and solid against him. Stiles holds him back, the hand at his nape moving up to run along his scalp. He moves his head so their cheeks rest against one another. They stay like that for a moment, a glorious moment. This is now, this is real. They are together, in this moment, and maybe that is all that really matters. Maybe this is enough.

_Stiles, I- I—_

_—I know… I’m gonna miss you too, Derek._

Derek moves then, tilting his head until their lips are once again level. He leans in, just barely skimming his lips along Stiles’; soft, easy, undemanding. It’s Stiles that takes it further, deeper, parting his lips, pressing his tongue against the divide of Derek’s mouth. Derek expects the kiss to be needy, full of pent up emotions that he doesn’t want to think about, but it isn’t. It is calm, measured, and so right. Derek pulls Stiles closer, finding the hem of Stiles’ shirt and moving his hand beneath it, up the smooth skin of his back, rubbing soothing circles into his spine.

Stiles moves his head, lips finding a better angle. The kiss is deeper, their tongues sliding together in a way that mirrors their bodies and sends shivers down Derek’s spine. He breaks the kiss and once again intertwines their fingers. He leads Stiles over to the bed. Stiles sits and stares up at Derek, tugging playfully on his hand, a half grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, before their fingers drift apart. Derek keeps his eyes focused on Stiles while he strips off his shirt, eye contact only breaking in the moments it takes for the collar to pass over his head. He repeats the performance with his own shirt, before moving his hands down to finger the fly of his jeans, tugging until their teeth part, until the sharp zip is background music to the sound of their mutual breaths. His fingers slide beneath the denim and cotton bands, slowly dragging down the barriers of clothing until they puddle on the floor and Derek is stepping out of them, stepping toward Stiles.

Stiles is a little bit flushed, but his eyes are still fastened to Derek’s. He stands, just as Derek reaches out to him. Derek makes the same treatment of Stiles pants until they are around his ankles and Derek kisses him again, once, before he moves to the edge of the bed. He reclines slowly, stretching his long legs out, propped up on his elbow, the other arm reaching out for Stiles. Stiles moves just as slowly, his knees and hands working together to move over the comforter, to move over Derek until he is resting on his shapely thighs. Derek rests his back against the bed, his head against the pillow behind him, and smiles up at Stiles.

_I’m not…very good with words, Stiles, but, you…I need you._

_Derek, I—I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me…_

Stiles grins back, his lips parting to show just a glimpse of teeth, and it is endearing really. Stiles moves then, bends his back down, moves his hands to press against Derek’s stomach, until his lips kiss along Derek’s jaw, teeth grazing lazily over the stubbled skin. He moves his lips, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the side of his neck where his shoulder meets it, to the front of his neck, to ghost over the pulse of his throat, to lick at it, maybe to feel the life that runs beneath the skin and bones, to taste the salt of sweat that slowly traces over his collarbones. Stiles is kissing down his chest next, shifting lower on his legs so he can rest his knees between Derek’s. His tongue sneaks out to flick wetly against a nipple and Derek moans, his hands trailing along the sharp planes of Stiles’ shoulder blades. Lips close around his right nipple as a rough fingertip paints against the other one. The treatment doesn’t last long before it is reversed and Stiles is moving on, placing liberal kisses on the outlines of his abs, fingers splaying along the skin above his ribs, tongue lapping at his skin.

He kisses him everywhere; down his arms, at the pulse of his wrists, each fingertip, each palm, at the soft, hairless skin just above where his arm meets the rest of his body. Down, to his hip bones, to the crease of his legs, to the hair just above his groin, lower, to the outside of his thighs, to the backs of his knees, to his ankles, to the instep of his foot. Back up, hands ascending, leading the way for his lips until his cheek is resting against the inside of Derek’s thigh.

Derek is breathing hard, hands tightly clenching the blanket under him. He tries not to move, not to miss one single moment of Stiles’ lips on him, of his mouth drinking at his skin. He savors it, savors these moments with Stiles. He doesn’t want to miss it. Stiles lays down between Derek’s legs, his face still resting against his thigh, and he nuzzles his cheek into the firm flesh. Derek shivers at the contact, giving in to the urge to touch him. He runs his hand over the buzzed hair atop Stiles’ head before cradling the cheek opposite his thigh in his hand once more.

_I just want to make a difference to someone. I just want my life to matter._

Stiles tilts his face away from Derek’s palm, to kiss along the inside of his thighs, to gently graze his teeth up, to nip at the seam of where his legs connects with his torso. Derek bites his lips, but the moan still escapes. Stiles looks up once again, all pale skin and dark eyes and pink lips, before he moves over Derek’s erection, the tip of his tongue licking at the slit, before his lips spread and encase Derek’s head in wet heat. He takes more in; tongue working over the hard, slick skin, as one hand moves from Derek’s hip to palm his testicles, thumbing the bit of skin just beneath them. Derek gasps, hips briskly canting up, before Stiles’ hand moves to the base of his penis. The dual sensations—of rough fingertips and soft lips and tongue—slowly drive him to madness. His moans, Stiles’ heavy breathing, and the sound of wet skin on wet skin are the only sounds in the room. But Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, the quickening pace as he moves faster over Derek, tasting him, swallowing him down.

Derek needs more. He needs this like he’s never needed anything before. Everything is Stiles and sensations and feelings and emotions that Derek can’t say, won’t say, because this matters too much. He doesn’t want to think about how unfair this is, how Stiles is giving him so much and how he’s trying not to panic because he never really knew how much he needed this, how much Stiles knows him that he could just know how Derek needs to be comforted and about how he may never feel like this again. He doesn’t want to think, he just wants to feel for these last few stolen hours. He wants to feel with Stiles.

Derek grabs at Stiles’ shoulder, willing him up, because he doesn’t want this to end with Stiles’ mouth around his dick. Stiles moves up with acquiescence, lifting his body from where it lays between Derek’s legs to once again straddle his thighs. Their erections brush together and Stiles lets out a breathy moan, hips gyrating, head thrown back. Derek’s hands are digging into Stile’s thighs, and he can already see the bruises blossom beneath his fingertips. He loosens his grip, hands sliding once again up Stiles’ back before he moves and flips their positions. Stiles is lying against the bed and Derek covers his body, his knees parting Stiles’ legs so he can settle himself between them before his lips are crashing against Stiles’. The kiss is deep and dark and slow and Derek can feel all of the fine tremors begin under Stiles’ skin, before he runs his hands over them, chasing them away, chasing away all thought, all sensation other than Derek’s hands and mouth on him.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s back and pulls him closer, his legs following to wrap around Derek’s hips, their bodies fitting together invitingly. They are both firm bodies and solid weight and slick skin and limbs that fit together in a way that makes them feel like they can sink into one another. Derek shifts, until their hard, sensitive erections are working together, until they are lost in just that, just the feeling of their bodies sliding against each other’s until they are gasping, but it still isn’t enough.

Derek stills his hips, lifts his chest and places his forehead against Stiles. They are both breathing hard, their exhaled air meeting and fanning at each other’s faces. Stiles is flushed from his cheeks to the top of his chest and Derek trails his hands along the splotchy skin, following it like a map, like it leads to some hidden treasure. But Stiles is that treasure. Stiles stares at Derek from the inch or so that separates their eyes. It is intimate in a way it hadn’t been before; Stiles bites his lip and the vulnerability showing on his face has to be reflected on Derek’s as well. Stiles just takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, shakily, and runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, the side of his mouth lifting just a fraction.

Derek’s sighs out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and places a kiss once again on Stiles’ lips. It is short and shallow and then Derek is leaning over the side of the bed, fingers trying desperately to find the handle to the drawer of the nightstand, before reaching inside. All the while Stiles’ hands are running softly up and down his back, tracing the ridges of his spine. Derek moves back over Stiles, uncapping the lube he stole out of the drawer, pressing a kiss to the side of Stiles’ mouth. He draws Stiles’ bottom lip into his mouth and sucks at it for a second. He bites down on the swollen skin of his lip at the same time that he slides a lube slicked fingertip into Stiles. He hisses and Derek isn’t sure which sensation it is from. Derek hooks an elbow under Stiles’ knee and lifts it to give him better access. He pushes the rest of his finger in, rubbing his fingertip along the slickening inside of Stiles, twists, until Stiles gasps and his hips move, erection grazing against Derek’s stomach. He pushes another finger in, using both digits to feel at that spot in Stiles, while his thumb strokes over the soft, smooth skin between Stiles sack and the place that his fingers are currently occupying. Stiles is moving his hips, circling them to find that perfect angle against Derek’s fingers. He keeps his finger moving and looks at Stiles, noting the way that his eyes are closed and his cheeks are reddening and his legs are spreading wider, one ankle behind Derek’s thighs, his hands are clutching wildly at Derek’s ass, blunt, callused fingertips digging in, pushing him closer.

Derek starts to remove his fingers and feels Stiles clench around them, trying to keep them in. He whimpers and Stiles moans, fucking himself one last time onto Derek’s long fingers, moaning loudly, before it is too much for Derek and he has to have more than his fingers inside of Stiles. He takes his hand away, finding the lube once more before he pulls Stiles from his position, leaning back against the wall with Stiles straddling his lap. Derek moves a lube-slicked hand over his dick, stroking it, watching Stiles watch as Derek touches himself. Stiles’ hand covers Derek and his eyes latch onto Derek’s face. He moves, shifting his legs until their hands line up Derek’s erection to Stiles opening. Derek moves his hand and places it on Stiles hip, the other snaking around to his back. Stiles waits as Derek pulls him closer, until their noses are almost touching and Stiles lowers himself down, slowly, letting his body sink down leisurely over the hard length that is Derek. Stiles is tight and hot and he moves slow and easy, painstakingly taking only a little bit of Derek’s hardness inside him at a time. They don’t break eye contact, faces still so close, moaning and panting and whimpering against each other. Derek doesn’t even blink until he feels the base of his cock rest softly against Stiles ass. Only then does he move, only then do his hands travel up to cradle Stiles’ face. Only then does he close his eyes and press his lips to Stiles’ forehead.

_You matter to me._

It is a quick kiss, a brush of lips until Stiles’ mouth finds his and their tongues move together, lazily, deeply, mirroring the deep, slow strokes of where their bodies are joined, where Derek’s hips are jacking up, down, up, slowly, and his hand is now wrapping around Stiles’ neglected and red erection. He squeezes the base, tight, almost too tight, but Stiles has his hands on Derek’s shoulders and he is lifting himself up and slamming himself back down onto Derek in time with his thrusts. It is sharp and slow and Derek needs more. The pleasure is like a slow burn; if he thinks about it too much it will start to hurt. He moves both of his hands to Stiles’ hips and thrusts hard, fast, losing himself in the feel of Stiles around him. The feel of his ass tight around his length, his fingers digging in to his shoulders, their chests pressed together, trapping Stiles’ erection between them, of Stiles’ lean thighs pressing against his own, of how his body is starting to shake and his heart is starting to beat erratically. Derek can feel everything, wants to feel everything.

He brings Stiles closer, thrusting harder, deeper, faster, holding him still in his arms. He thrusts until they are both moaning, writhing, twisting to get closer, to feel more, until their bodies are just bags of bones and skin and tears and cum and teeth. He moves until they are weightless, until they are as close as two people could ever be, until they are one; one body, one mind, one sensation, one pleasure. It fills them to the brim, spilling out of their bodies like a wave, like an ocean current that drags them under, deeper, making it hard to breathe. They break the surface together, each clutching at the other hard and tight, never wanting to let go. Their bodies shake together, riding out the waves, forehead to forehead until they are both covered in cum and sweat and are sagging boneless against each other.

_At least we have tonight._

The wall is cold against Derek’s cooling skin, but he doesn’t care enough to move. They sit like that for a while, calming their ragged breathing, slowing their mutual heartbeats, letting the cum and sweat cool on their skin. It is Derek that moves first, shifting so he is no longer buried inside of Stiles body. Stiles lays down, his back to the bed, head resting against a pillow and motions for Derek to lay next to him. He does and Stiles pulls him into his arms, until Derek’s cheek is pressing against Stile’s chest and he can hear the sluggish beat, still slightly irregular. Stiles strokes one hand up and down over Derek’s arm, softly ghosting over the skin, the other hand moving into Derek’s hair, to work his rough fingertips over his scalp, massaging the skin.

Derek sighs contentedly, finding the hand that is stroking over his arm and lacing their fingers together once more. He brings the joined hands to his lips and kisses Stiles’ knuckles.

_We’ll always have tonight, even if it’s the last time._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek tries to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I decided to write more of this and it might've grown legs walked all over me. There will be a third part to this as well. Please don't be too mad at me in the meantime.
> 
> Beta'd by B, who is the best friend and editor I have.

_A squad of twelve has been reported missing._   
_Still no word on missing soldiers._   
_Three men found dead, killed execution style._   
_Five of the remaining squad found floating in a river._   
_Survivor rescued! Found wandering in the desert. More information to come soon._   
_Survivor identified as Michael Williams._   
_THE SOLE SURVIVOR SPEAKS FOR THE FIRST TIME._   
_Remaining three MIA declared KIA: identified as Alexander Court, John Bates, Stiles Stilinski._

  
15 months. 475 days. 10,968 hours. 658,080 minutes. 39,484,800 moments, each one harder than the last. Each moment ticks away the time that Stiles isn’t in Derek's life. Each moment since he left passes, making it harder for Derek to breathe, to think, with the weight of the emptiness inside of him sinking into his thoughts, drowning him in sorrow so intense it wakes him in the night. Shuddering, shaking, reaching out for something that he knows isn't there, but each time his arm extends, his fingers grasping at nothing but empty air. The room is always quiet and cold. The right side of the bed is always empty. Derek hasn’t washed the sheets in a long time, probably too long, but he can’t bring himself to erase the last traces of Stiles’ scent from the sheets, the pillowcase. Can’t bring himself to pack up the clothes in the drawer where Stiles kept his stuff. Derek can’t seem to get out of bed. So he reaches out, just to graze his fingertips along the curve of the pillow from where Stiles’ head once rested.

  
If he doesn’t think about it, he can almost imagine that Stiles is still there, can almost imagine that he is just in the next room, researching something; maybe catching up on his Persian folklore, like he started doing after they faced that jinx a few years ago. He swears sometimes he can still hear the incessant click of keys as fingers race over them, press them down. But then he remembers all over again, all at once, and it is devastating.

  
It’s the kind of devastation that you work your whole life to avoid, to overcome. The kind of devastation that shouldn’t happen to someone more than once in a life time, but to Derek it happens again and again. The first time, he lost his parents, the second time his sister, this time Stiles. It isn’t fair. On the night he found out Stiles didn’t make it, he… wanted to die, wanted to scream and howl and weep and mourn. He went into the woods, went to the place where he’d first seen Stiles. He screamed until his throat was sore and then howled through the ache. He tore at his skin with inhuman claws, one after another as they bled and healed, only to open and bleed again. He screamed and bled, screamed and bled until there was nothing left, until the ache in his chest was outpaced by the ache in his body. He stayed there until he couldn’t feel, just for a little while, just for a moment.

  
Some days he wishes he could go back to the way he was before, to the empty, blissful numbness of just going through the motions, of never really living. Pain was the only thing that made him feel, made him remember that he was alive. Pain and guilt and anger. Emotions were something he had long since forgotten, given up on. They were useless. They made him weak, and he hated being weak. Derek hated to feel helpless and insecure. He made himself, molded himself into someone of power, someone that was strong. He thought that strength was everything. It gave him power. It made him feel less like that scared little boy he used to be. He didn't want to be helpless; so he learned to rely on himself when there was no one left. He needed it. He needed not to think, not to remember that he was alone; made himself think that he was happy being alone. It was all he'd known for too long. Loneliness. He learned to accept that, learned not to hope for more, because hoping led to feeling something separate from his numbness. Hoping left room for wanting. Derek didn't want to want anything, other than to just keep coasting, steady, unfeeling, pretending to be stone and convincing himself he was.  
But stones sink. Stones are heavy and cold and hard. They are jagged when they break. Eventually every stone will crumble, will wilt away, will turn to dirt, be crushed into the earth, or drift into the air or the ocean. He doesn't want to drift away anymore. He knows that now, he'd rather be a tree than a rock; rather feel the life flow in his veins, feel his roots grow and stretch and feel the sunlight on his face.

  
He knows he can't go back to that now, though—to the numbness. He knows he can never be happy living that kind of existence, being an empty shell of someone that he used to be. He doesn’t want to go back to that person, he doesn’t want to be an empty shell, devoid of life and warmth and love. It's enough to fill him with fear; deep, bone chilling fear that makes his heart beat too fast and his hands and chest clench up until he can barely move or think. He doesn't want to forget what it's like to feel. Even the pain of loneliness, the overwhelming sense of sorrow, the constant ache in his chest—missing something viscerally, like a limb, like a part of himself—it is something he's willing to live with, has to live with, because he doesn’t want to forget the feelings, not even for a second.  
He does it because of Stiles; for Stiles. Just knowing that there was a time that he felt, that both of them felt, it's enough to make the pain something akin to bearable, but worse and better and more all rolled up into something he can't put into words. All Derek knows is that he'd rather die than forget what it feels like to love. He’d rather die than forget how Stiles made him feel.

  
Not again. Never again. He won't trade what he had with Stiles for the world. The thought of Stiles is the only thing that gets him through the days, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember. It gets harder to picture his smile, to remember the feel of his skin, his lips, to remember the exact color of his dark eyes, how they lit up when they looked to Derek. He was starting to forget things; the sound of his voice, the rhythm of his heartbeat, how their fingers fit together, how their bodies intertwined. He doesn't want to forget. The picture he has of Stiles is worn and starting to fray around the edges. He looks at it every day, runs his fingers along the path of the inked cheeks, lips, trying desperately to remember every detail of him, every joke he'd ever told that had made Derek laugh, even the ones that hadn't. He needs to remember, because it was feeling more and more as if Stiles was nothing but a memory, like he'd existed in a dream, like he was nothing more than a fantasy, something living in Derek's imagination.  
~  
They placed Stiles' tombstone next to his mothers'. Derek thought he’d like that. Thought that maybe he’d get a kick out of the fact that his grave is made from the same stone as his mother’s is, the same shape. All that is different are the names, the numbers, the words. Derek remembers the funeral. Derek, Scott, Isaac, and Erica helped to lay the empty casket in the ground. The flag folded on top was a stark contrast to the dark wood. It was heavy, the empty casket; filled to the brim with mourning and tears and words unspoken. Derek couldn’t believe that it was real, that this was really happening. He remembers that it hit him like a ton of bricks, knocked the breath out of him. He remembers how hard it was to stand there while someone came and said some words, some meaningless words about this treasure of a man that they’d never even met, that they would never get the chance to know. He remembers the wan faces of the people gathered there. He remembers the solemn looks, the quivering lips, the shaking fingers grasping onto one another. He remembers the way Lydia had blinked back frantic tears, the way Isaac had leaned into Erica and Boyd, the way their arms had wrapped around each other, the way their heads had come together, resting, swallowing down the sadness. He remembers Scott’s look of devastation when a corner of the flag was smeared with dirt, noticed the way Allison laced their fingers together and how Scott looked away from the grave. Derek stood next to the sheriff, both of them with their hands at their sides, watching, listening, trying not to think. He remembers that Jackson came back for the funeral, came back for the first time in years just to say his goodbye to Stiles. There were so many people there, people he’d only seen a handful of times, but they all came out to pay their respects. They covered Stiles' casket with roses, placed daisies and violets and pansies in front of his tombstone, one by one. He remembers that the gun shots were loud; the trumpets were calm and sad. He remembers thinking that it should’ve rained, but it didn’t. It was bright and sunny and the leaves on the trees were green and the birds were chirping and it was garish in its calm simplicity.

  
He remembers the way he felt like his world was ending. He felt like he was in a fog. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He wondered if he was even breathing. Derek kneeled down to place a sprig of rosemary by the rest of the flowers, as the people slowly started to trickle away, back to their cars, back to their lives. But Derek and a few others stayed. He smelled the rosemary, the potent sweet fragrance that Derek knew was reminding the sheriff of his late wife; knew it because Stiles had told him once that rosemary was her favorite scent and that he had loved the smell. The sheriff took in an uneasy breath and stepped next to where Derek was kneeling, the knee of his suit pant pressing firmly into the soft soil. The sheriff placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder. It was warm and real and comforting in a way that Derek hadn’t felt since Stiles left.

  
He stood up and faced the sheriff, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to tell this man that he loved his son, loves him still, like the stars love the moon; he loves him like the ocean loves—deeply, like a living thing, flowing from one state to another, ever changing, but staying the same. He loves him like he never thought he would ever love anyone; but he did, and now Stiles is gone and Derek can’t seem to get the words out. They are stuck in his throat and he kept trying to say them, but his throat just got tighter and tighter until he looked into the sheriff’s kind eyes and he was being pulled into a hug. Derek’s hands grasped at the back of the sheriff’s jacket, holding on tightly like he was an anchor, like they could ground each other, like they could have this moment and connect and just feel for the mutual loss of Stiles. Derek thought that maybe the sheriff was the only person who truly understood his loss, the only one who got just how much Stiles meant, just how much he mattered, matters still. And suddenly Derek didn't need to say the words, he knew that he was understood, and it is like a weight was lifted. He hugged the sheriff back tighter, finally letting out the tears he’d been holding in since Stiles left, since he found out that he was dead.

  
He remembers realizing that he didn’t have to be a stone; that he didn’t have to be strong, not right then, not when he was forced to finally say goodbye to the only person that he’d ever really loved. Derek wept. He wept openly, unashamedly. He wept until he was shaking, until hot, salty tears stained his skin and the dark cloth of the sheriff’s suit jacket. He remembers knowing that to weep is to make less the depth of grief1. He knew that when he felt the sheriff’s tears warm on his shoulder that there was nothing worse than the misery of sorrow, but that sharing grief could lessen the burden, could pave the way for healing.  
~  
Derek still can’t seem to make himself get up from the bed, can't seem to move, being weighed down by the memories. He can’t seem to leave the soft sheets, not with the scent of Stiles clinging to his skin, surrounding him in something akin to an embrace. He turns onto his stomach; head nestled into the pillow, breathing deeply. But it’s too much today. The scent catches in his throat and he’s choking on it. Tears prick in the back of his eyes and he closes his tired eyelids, the salty drops managing to still leak out the corners of his eyes, to cling to his dark eyelashes. He’s never felt this kind of pain before. He thought that eventually it would stop, that time would help him recover from the loss, like it did with Laura, like it did with his parents. But nothing is helping, nothing stops the ache in his chest, the pressure that rests behind his eyes, the constant need to ask, the inability to understand.

  
Nothing is making him feel better. The days pass and he still feels the same. No one talks about Stiles anymore, but they all seem closer than before. Sometimes the sheriff invites him over for dinner, sometimes Scott stops by with Allison, just to chat about life. Even Peter drops by just to say hello. Derek is trying. He’s trying to smile more, to be kinder, because he knows that’s what Stiles would have wanted for him. He tries to live his life like he’s living it for two, and in a way he is. He wants to make the best of his life and he knows that Stiles would be proud of him. He knows that seeing Derek have dinner with his father would make him swell with pride, make his honeyed eyes saturate with tears, but he would just smile that stupid half-grin and shake his head a little bit.

  
Derek shakes his head now, willing the thought away, but it is too late and he opens his eyes, the tears trickling out before he sighs and stands up, wiping desperately at the wet marks. He moves over to his dresser and pulls on a shirt and some jeans, finding his boots and pulls them on, laces them, he grabs something from the top of his dresser and shoves it is his pocket. Grabbing his leather jacket, he looks outside to see the wind fluttering the dying leaves. He sees them blow, carried on some unseen path into the sky, to float into the dark clouds gathering there. He hears his phone chime, but ignores it, knowing it is probably Scott or Boyd, before he leaves, before he goes to the one place he’s been avoiding.

  
It’s a short drive to the cemetery. It’s been almost two months since the funeral, but Derek hasn’t been able to come here. He pulls his car in and parks, getting out just as the rain starts to fall. He takes off his jacket and throws it in his car before he slowly makes his way to the grave. The grass is freshly cut; he can smell the sharp scent as it mixes with the damp air. He takes a deep breath before he stops in front of the grave stone. The grass has started to grow in splotches in the dirt covering the casket. It’s nature’s way of moving on; to grow through death, over it, to consume it and use it to grow more. He wishes he could be like that, wishes he could keep growing, be able to move on.  
The rain starts to fall harder, the steady pitter-patter increasing in rhythm. Like a cadence, it strums through him. It beats into his shoulders, his neck, soaking the shirt, sending chills down his spine, but he doesn’t care. He’s here. He’s finally here. He doesn’t know what to do first. He kneels down, his denim clad knees taking in the water of the surface. He barely feels it. His eyes ghost over the headstone. He thinks he says Stiles’ name, but the wind is picking up, howling its agony to the skies.

  
It’s Stiles’ birthday.

  
Derek reaches into his jeans pocket and finds something he’s been holding onto for a long time. He pulls out the box with the little molded silver figure inside; a wolf charm. He’d wanted to give this to Stiles since the day after he left. He finally had it made a few months later, had planned on waiting until Stiles was back to give it to him. But… Stiles is back now, he supposes. It’s the last thing he can give him. He knows it isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough, but it is his birthday and Derek can’t not give him something. Thunder rumbles somewhere over head and Derek sets the velvet box on the ground. His fingers reach out to trail along the inscripted words.

  
He closes his eyes, sinks into the rain and the earth and the cool, wet rock beneath his fingertips. This is all that he has left of Stiles. Just this moment. Just this rock and the empty wood box buried below, covered in dirt and water and grass. He trails his fingers down until they touch the wet earth just in front of Derek’s knees. He digs in, dirt settling under his nails but he can’t bring himself to care. He digs out a hole in the earth, a small one, and sets the velvet box inside. The rain splashes around him, draining into the small opening, before he covers the box with wet soil and leaves it in the ground. He leans down until his forehead is touching the top of the gravestone.

  
“Happy Birthday Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- King Henry VI Part III (2.1.85) by William Shakespeare
> 
> Also, yes I am aware that it takes 7 years for a MIA to be considered a KIA, but for the sake of the story progression, I fudged it. 
> 
> I really hope you guys don't hate me too much. As always, any and all comments, criticisms, and feedback are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter! 
> 
> Beta'd by B.

The drive back home from the cemetery seems longer than it did on the way there. Derek is cold. His shirt and jeans are soaked through from kneeling in the rain for so long. He doesn't know how long he was there, how long he stayed with his forehead pressed to the grave before he finally moved, finally walked away, back to his car, back to the life that he still somehow seems to have. His clothes are a soggy, heavy mess. Derek shivers, chilled to the bone, the heat of his car barely coming alive before he pulls into his driveway.  

The sheriff's cruiser is in there when he parks. It still surprises him sometimes that the sheriff cares enough to stop by and see how he's doing. Normally, Derek thinks it's nice; he thinks it is comforting and kind and there's still a part of him that isn't used to kindness from near strangers. Maybe the sheriff isn't a near stranger anymore though—he is Stiles' father after all—but he doesn't think he can handle a visit from him today. Not today, of all days. Derek just wants to be alone. He just wants to remember Stiles. He wants to mourn him for a little bit longer before he has to face someone and pretend that it's okay that Stiles is gone. He isn't ready for that. He doesn't want to see the sheriff and pretend that his son isn't dead, but he doesn't want to face him and make him sad again. For some reason, Derek hates when he reminds the sheriff of Stiles; he hates that it instantly makes the older man sad, makes his smile fall, and then he leaves and Derek is alone again.

It's still raining when Derek finally steps out of the car. The drops fall viciously, snarling as they assault the ground.  He closes his eyes for a moment. He wonders if he can do this, if he can go inside, talk to the sheriff now, see Scott and Allison later, get a visit from Lydia, then Erica, Isaac and Boyd tonight. But he knows he will. He knows that he will make himself go through the motions, because this isn't just about him, and what he wants and feels and needs today. This is also about the other people that mattered to Stiles. Today is about remembering; it's about laughing and smiling, and being happy, because that's what Stiles would have wanted for all of them. So Derek will. He will go inside and change his clothes and dig the dirt out from under his fingernails and have a coffee with the sheriff.

Thunder rumbles overhead, reminding Derek that he is still standing in the rain, sopping wet in front of his house. He takes a step toward his front door, but a fleeting motion catches his attention. He stares up through the rain at his porch, at the white something he can only half-see through the haze of the rain. He stares until he can see that it is cotton; a t-shirt. He stares until he sees that the white cotton shirt is actually attached to a body that has arms and legs and a head and a mouth that is slowly opening, slowly forming his name.

"Derek."

And just like that Derek's head swims, his vision blurs and his heart starts to race. He shakes his head, tries to will away the cursed apparition. He blinks, hoping maybe he will open his eyes and he can be back in the cemetery and this can all just be some sort of awful nightmare. This can't be real. He can't be here. He closes his eyes. He desperately needs to believe that this is a cruel dream, because if he allows himself the think that maybe this is real, even for a moment, then he will start to hope it is. Derek doesn't know if he can handle anymore false hopes. He doesn't know if he's strong enough anymore to live through losing him a second time. Derek opens his eyes, heart ricocheting in his chest, echoing in his ears, echoing in the cadence of the rain against his skin.

It's Stiles.

He is standing on the porch, one hand on the rail that leads to the stairs. Derek fleetingly notices that Stiles' shirt and jeans are dry. How long has he been here? How long has the ghost of the man he loves been haunting him, awaiting his return? Derek can't bring himself to move. He just watches. He just stares and tries to breathe through the rain and the thunder and the overwhelming feelings that are consuming him. Stiles moves his hand over the rail; moves his legs and his body and starts to walk off the porch, down the stairs and into the rain. Derek watches Stiles close his eyes as he feels the first drops of water descend upon his head full of hair.

He opens his eyes and a heavy drop of water clings to his eyelashes. "Derek," he says again, his voice barely above a whisper, barely heard through the roaring of the wind and the rain. But Derek does hear it. He hears it and it breaks something in him and suddenly he is moving, suddenly his limbs are alive and quaking and he is shivering everywhere, and then Stiles is moving too. They are moving together, toward each other, their bodies mirror movements of trying desperately to close the distance, to ignore the pounding of the rain and the scream of the skies, until Stiles arms open and Derek is all but running into them, burying himself inside of the only embrace that he’s ever craved. He holds on, clings like he has never done before in his life, as if afraid that when he lets go, Stiles will wilt away into the wind, will drift away, go back to whatever heaven he came from. But Stiles is real. He is solid and warm, and he doesn’t smell like the grave Derek just came from. He smells like Stiles; he smells like flesh and blood and something undeniably _real_ and Derek just wants to wrap himself in it, in him.  

Maybe Derek is shaking. Maybe it’s Stiles. Maybe they are both shivering from the cold rain, but they can’t bring themselves to care, to pull away and part. They just hold tighter, wrap their arms more securely around each other. Derek can feel tears on his cheeks, mixing in with the rain, but he can’t tell if they are his tears or Stiles’. It doesn't really matter though, because Stiles is _here_. Stiles is _alive_ and it's almost too much for Derek to take in.

"How?" The word comes out of Derek's mouth before he can stop it, before he can think to close his mouth and pray that the moment doesn’t shatter, that the apparition in his arms doesn't break into a million pieces.

Derek feels Stiles' chest expand in a deep breath, feels his chest open and press further into Derek's. Stiles doesn't say anything though, he just breathes in and exhales, shifting his head into the crook of Derek's neck, ghosting his lips over the cool, wet skin he finds there. 

Lightning flashes somewhere in Derek's peripheral vision, "We should go inside." He pulls back from Stiles a little, placing both of his hands on Stiles' shoulders to look at him, but Stiles doesn’t bring his eyes to meet Derek's. Droplets of rain run down the side of Stiles' head and Derek watches them move as he nods just a fraction. Derek moves his hand down to grasp Stiles' hand in his, leading him inside of the warm, dry house.

The quiet of the house seems almost deafening without the screaming of the wind and the rain and the thunder. They both stand by the door for a long moment, the dripping of their clothing onto the hardwood sounds louder than it should to Derek, almost louder than Stiles' heartbeat. Stiles is the first to move. He leans down to unlace his boots before slipping them and his socks off to rest on the welcome mat underfoot. Derek follows suit, the wet denim at his ankles dripping onto his cold feet.

"I—I'll get us some towels," Derek says before he walks down the hall to the bathroom, sparing Stiles a glance as he goes. He is standing with his bare feet on the dry hardwood, arms crossed over his chest, head downcast.

_Stiles._

Derek sighs and grabs two oversized towels before he is back in the living room. Stiles is leaning against the doorframe, his chest is bare and his shirt is bundled in his hands when Derek gives him the towel. Stiles is visibly shivering, goose bumps flowing over his skin, shoulders slightly shaking. He's pale, paler than Derek has ever seen him before. "I still have some of your clothes here. Do you want me to get you something to change into?" Derek's voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but Stiles hears him. He finally looks up at Derek. His eyes are darker than Derek remembers, but when he blinks, Stiles is looking away again. "Just let me—" he starts to leave the room, to go get them both some clothes, but Stiles reaches foreword and laces his fingers with Derek's.

 Derek doesn't move, doesn't breathe as Stiles lifts their joint hands to his mouth, gently pressing his lips to Derek's knuckles. Stiles' eyes close for a moment before he looks Derek in the eye. "You—" he twists their fingers a little bit, licks his lips and starts again, "you kept my stuff?"

Derek can see it now, the dark circles under his eyes, the look in them deader than he's ever seen them. Stiles is different now. He's changed in the last 15 months. Something in Derek’s chest clenches at the thought, questions exploding, begging to be voiced, begging to be answered. He wants to know, wants to know why he's here now, where he was before, but he doesn't ask those questions. Derek just moves his hand until their palms are pressed together. He leads Stiles out of the room, toward his bedroom to get the dry clothes, "Of course,” he says, as if it is the most simple thing in the world, as if he hasn’t just told Stiles that he never gave up one him, that he missed him every day, that he couldn’t bring himself to lose the last parts of Stiles that he had.

 They enter the bedroom and Derek drops Stiles' hand to go to the dresser. He opens the drawer containing Stiles' things and he notices that his hands are shaking slightly. He swallows hard and grabs an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He hands them to Stiles, who is toweling himself off. He drops the towel to pull the shirt over his head. Derek turns to get his own clothes and change into them quickly. When he turns back, Stiles is standing in just his boxers and T-shirt, trying to lift his left leg into the leg of the pant, but isn't succeeding. 

Derek sees them then; the wounds. The ugly, garish, raised circle of scar tissue on his thigh, the jagged, twisted lines that cover his knee where he's having trouble bending it. They are angry red, puckered, still healing. Derek doesn’t know how he missed it before, the smell of damaged skin, of the medicine he can smell coming off of Stiles, the fear that Stiles has wrapped around him like the towel was before.

Derek is in front of him before he's even aware that he moved, kneeling down by Stiles’ injured leg. "Stiles." Derek reaches out, as if to touch the healing skin, but he stops himself, unsure if Stiles wants him to touch him, especially now. He's seen all of Stiles scars before, kissed them, touches them, helped to heal some of them, but these are new. These are not the wounds of a werewolf, or an accident, or some mystical creature. These are human wounds, made from machines, made from guns.

Stiles goes still, his hands holding onto his pants so hard that his knuckles are bleeding of all color. "Derek. Derek don't. Please—" his voice is shaking, his body trembling, flushing of the little color it had before. "I—I didn't want you to see that." Derek looks up to see him close his eyes, the muscles in his jaw straining as he swallows. Derek shakes his head—maybe at Stiles, maybe at himself—and reaches out to guide Stiles' leg into the pant, before he stands, pulling the pants up to settle on Stiles' waist.

Derek cups Stiles face in both of his hands. He leans in to press a barely there kiss to his forehead. The tension in Stiles drains out at Derek's touch. "Why? Why didn't you want me to see it Stiles?" Derek asks, his thumbs trailing back and forth over Stiles' cheeks. "You—you got hurt. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Stiles wraps both of his hands around Derek's wrists, pulls them away from his face. He sits down on the edge of the bed, carefully stretching his bad leg out in front of him. He doesn't look up at Derek. He wrings his hands, a nervous gesture Derek hasn't seen Stiles do since he was a teenager. "I'm not like you Derek. It won't heal. My leg will be like that for the rest of my life." Stiles speaks quietly, as if he is ashamed that he is merely human.

Derek kneels down in front of Stiles, careful to avoid his injured leg. "Stiles," he is almost desperate, placing his hands over Stiles’, stilling his nervous movements. Derek can’t stand that he is making stiles so nervous. "Do you think that matters to me? That you can't heal yourself? Or do you think that I won't want you anymore because of your scars?” He watches as Stiles swallows hard. “I don't care about that, Stiles. All I care about is you." He reaches out and finds Stiles' face again. "I don't care what your legs look like or what your hair looks like. Just like I never cared about your freckles or your ADHD. You're here," Derek's shoots Stiles a watery grin. "Your here and alive and warm and that's all that matters to me. You're all that matters, Stiles."

Suddenly, Derek is being pulled onto the bed, into Stiles arms. He is crying, he knows he is, but so is Stiles. "I couldn't—" Derek's voice breaks. "It was so hard without you. Every day it got worse. I felt like I was dying. I—Stiles, what happened? Where were you?" Stiles' face is in his hands again and he is wiping away a stray tear. "Where were you?" He sounds needy, he knows he does, but he can’t care.

Stiles is shaking his head, murmuring, “I’m so sorry Derek. I’m so sorry,” over and over until Derek silences him with a kiss. It is needy and desperate and shaky and wet. Stiles’ lips are firm against his, they open for him. Derek finds solace in Stiles’ warmth, wrapping his arms tighter around him, letting his mouth and tongue tell Stiles all he wishes he could say.

They part on a sigh, two bodies mutually falling horizontal, curling together, fingers intertwined. The daylight filtering in through the blinds slowly starts to cast a colored film on their faces. It’s a while before one of them speaks; after their tears have dried, after their heartbeats have settled, after everything is narrowed down to the feeling of being in each others’ arms.

“We were captured one night while we were sleeping,” Stiles says, words almost void of all emotion. “We were knocked out—all 12 of us. When we woke up we were in a cave. They were surrounding us, wearing masks. They were speaking a language we couldn’t understand. We were chained up.” Derek watches Stiles as he looks at the ceiling, watches his tongue poke out to wet his bottom lip before he begins again. “I lost track of the days. They were all the same. I was so hungry, so thirsty. They fed us bread and water, sometimes, if one of them happened to show up, happened to remember us.”

He lets out a shaky breath, “they killed 8 of us; picked us off like birds, like it was a game. They just left them there, the bodies. One man…I don’t remember his name…he broke his own wrist to get out of the chains. He escaped when they were gone. Didn’t even give us a backward glance, like we were nothing.”

Derek’s fingers tighten on Stiles’, but he wills the anger rising up inside of him down. He needs to know, needs to hear the rest. He moves his head until his ear is pressed above Stiles’ heart, until the calming, rhythmic beat sinks into his skin.

“They only came once after that. They unchained the three of us that were left. By then we hadn’t had food for days. They laid us in a pile on the ground of the cave. They shot us,” he says simply. “Not killing blows. They couldn’t even show us mercy in death. They shot us so that we would bleed out, slowly and painfully, and then left.”

Derek makes a sound, something like a whimper. How? How could someone do that? How could they do that to Stiles? Derek closes his eyes, tears wetting his lashes as they flutter against Stiles’ cotton covered chest.

“One of us died right after they left. My leg was bleeding out, and the other guy was shot in the stomach, but we were still alive. After all of that, I couldn’t die there, like that. I couldn’t let us die.”

Stiles moves so that he is cradling Derek’s face in his hands, looking into his eyes. "While I was trapped there, all I could think about was getting back to you. It was the only thing that got me through the days. I had to get back to you. I couldn’t die there. I couldn't stand the thought of never getting to see you again, of being just another person that you'd lose, that my dad would lose. I couldn't stand it. I had to get back to you. I couldn’t let us die.”

Derek swallows hard, body shaking on a violent sob. Stiles blurs as Derek’s eyes fill with

emotion.

“I remembered what you showed me, about how to dress a wound to stop the bleeding. I tore our clothes into bandages. I carried the other soldier out of the cave. I walked until I couldn’t carry him anymore, then I dragged him, because I couldn’t leave him behind.” Stiles looks lost, his eyes glazing over as he stared, unseeing, at Derek. “I couldn’t let him die.” His gaze is focused again. He takes a deep breath, strokes his thumbs over Derek’s cheekbones, “Eventually someone found us. He saw our tags and got us to a medic. I—I almost didn’t make it, they said. I lost a lot of blood. They—they said I should’ve died. But I told them I couldn’t die, because I had to get back to you.

“You kept me alive, Derek. You’re the only thing that matters to me.” Stiles says it like it is the simplest thing in the world, like he’s talking about the weather, like he didn’t watch people around him die, didn’t get hurt, didn’t almost die himself. He says it like it is the simplest truth he’s ever known.

Derek looks at Stiles, his breath forced from his lungs until they are burning and he is gasping for sweet relief. “I love you, Stiles. I love you so much.” And he says that like it is the simplest truth he’s ever known. But it is. Nothing has ever been truer for Derek; nothing has ever been more real.

Derek moves then. He moves his hands over Stiles, moves his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, pulls it off, trails his fingertips over every goose bump, over every freckle. He pulls off Stiles sweatpants, pulls off his boxers, moves Stiles until his head is resting on Derek’s pillow. Derek takes off his own clothes next. Stiles watches him, watches Derek’s body as he moves back over Stiles, watches his hands as they caress his bare skin, watches as his mouth moves.

Derek trails his lips down Stiles’ torso, over his half-erect member, to his ruined knee. “Does it hurt?” Derek asks.

Derek hears the stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat. “A little,” he says. He doesn’t say that it will probably always hurt, every day for the rest of his life, but Derek gets it. He ghosts his lips over the scars, softly, gently. He kisses every ridge of mending skin, every knot of twisted muscle, every discolored bit of scar tissue.

He wants Stiles to know that it doesn’t matter to him, that the scars are just another part of him. “I love you,” he whispers, pressing one last kiss to the raised circle of flesh. He moves back up to kiss Stiles until they are both breathless once again.

Stiles hands are tracing the planes in Derek’s back, up and down, callused fingertips working over his skin. Derek moves so he is straddling Stiles’ hips, so their growing erections are pressing together in a way that feels _right_. Like they are pieces to the same puzzle, molded from the same clay, fitting together like they are meant to be, like all that matters is how well their bodies compliment each others’.

Stiles is the first to move, hips canting just the slightest bit, fingers trailing down to settle on Derek’s hips, to hold him there, press him down, make the friction into something more satisfying, into something verging on discomfort.

Derek arches his back, moaning, throwing his head back as the pleasure takes hold, as the spark Stiles ignites in him sets fire to his body and the blunt nails of his fingertips are trailing over Stiles’ chest, leaving blushing rivers in their wake. Derek shifts his hips, circling them into Stiles’, grunting, moaning, wanting so badly to be closer, to have _more._

“Derek,” Stiles moans, fingers digging in to Derek’s hips hard enough to cause him pain, but that doesn’t matter either. All that matters is the way Stiles sounds, the way he is panting under Derek, the way his heartbeat is thudding a tattoo into his skull, the way his scent is surrounding them both. Derek leans down, catches Stiles’ bottom lips between his teeth as he reaches toward the nightstand, finding what he’s looking for in the drawer.

“I need you Stiles.” He tells him, watches as the words sink in, as Stiles’ eyes dilate and his erection jumps beneath his own. Derek opens the tube of lube and puts some on his fingers. He braces his thighs against Stiles’, places a hand on Stiles’ chest before he reaches around to press his index finger against the ring of muscle, lubing up the sensitive skin, before he is pushing in to his own ass. The burn fades quickly as he moves his finger, adding a second one shortly after. He fucks himself down, twists his fingers until the ache starts to subside.

Only then does he move, only then does he remove his fingers, only then does he shift so that Stiles’ cock is beneath his ass and he is moving a lube-slicked hand over Stiles’ erection. He waits until he can feel Stiles’ start to writhe, start to dig his fingertips into Derek’s hips harder, until he says his name again, desperate for more, desperate for what only Derek can give him.

He sinks down onto Stiles slowly, his body all but shaking in anticipation, stretching to accept Stiles’ girth, his solid, pulsing heat. Derek shivers, pleasure spiking through him as Stiles pulls Derek down into a kiss. Stiles’ hands are everywhere, chasing away the shivers that erupt over Derek’s skin as he moves over Stiles.

They only exist here, together. In this moment they are one. Derek starts to move faster, needing this like he’s never needed anything before. He breathes out Stiles’ name, thighs trembling, fingertips digging into where they rest on Stiles’ stomach. His hips lift, descend, lift, descend, until all he can feel is rockets of pleasure shooting up from his groin, heating his blood and his body until all he can feel is the heat of Stiles inside of him and he closes his eyes.

He tightens his body around Stiles’, feels the fine tremors race through Stiles’ body beneath him. He feels the pulse of Stiles heartbeat in the throbbing erection buried deep inside of him, stroking again and again over that spot inside. It’s all Derek can do to keep going, to keep moving until they are both numb and boneless and complete.

He feels callused fingers slide over his erection, fisting tightly, stroking in time with the up-down movements of Derek’s hips. He opens his eyes, looks into Stiles’ own—the deep, dark depths that open up and swallow him whole—and he is lost, gasping, writhing, twisting, moving until he is moaning, until he is cumming.

He feels as Stiles’ back arch against the mattress as he jerks his hips up into Derek, trying to get closer. Stiles is still staring into Derek’s eyes, lips parting as he calls out his name with a final thrust, his fingers a vice on Derek’s hips, but he barely notices. Derek can feel the warmth of Stiles cum inside of him as he collapses onto Stiles’ chest, his ear pressed once again over Stiles’ heart. They are both breathing hard, panting into the darkening room, bathing in the afterglow and aftershocks.

They stay like that until the sweat cools, until Stiles starts to shiver and Derek finally moves to pull the blanket at the foot of the bed over them. They stay like that, Stiles still inside of Derek, until Stiles is soft, until his hands once again trace over Derek’s body. They stay like that until the clouds break and the moonlight flickers in through the blinds, until all they can see is one another. They stay like that until the only sound is the cadence of their heartbeats, and they kiss each other like it is the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this! Thank you for the comments and the kind words!
> 
> If you want to keep up on the status of my fics follow my Teen Wolf tumblr (clawstoagunfight). Or if you just want to chat I am on tumblr (concerthero) and twitter (@concert_hero). 
> 
> Any and all comments are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this, thank you! 
> 
> This is my first Teen Wolf fic. Did you love it? Did you hate it? Let me know!


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